


See the World Again

by HamstertheGreat



Category: Great Gatsby - F. Scott Fitzgerald, The Great Gatsby (1974), The Great Gatsby (2013)
Genre: Everybody is fine, Happy Ending, Jay Gatsby lives!!, M/M, They love each other
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-02-11
Updated: 2020-03-05
Packaged: 2021-02-27 21:42:02
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 7,742
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22662667
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HamstertheGreat/pseuds/HamstertheGreat
Summary: Nick came back to Gatsby's house and found out Gatsby was alive. They kissed in the green light, and romance followed,as well as the revelation of Gatsby's plan.
Relationships: Gatsby/Nick, Nick Carraway & Jay Gatsby
Comments: 4
Kudos: 17





	1. Green Light

**Author's Note:**

> Although the events in the original novel is unchanged, I make certain change to some characters, at least from Nick's perspective, and this story begins after Nick has published his novel 'The Great Gatsby'. Please try not to be shocked by my weird language and deliberate word choice cause my language has been crazy with loads of streams of consciousness for ages. Fitzgerald's gonna kill me for ruinning his work, I believe. I have deliberately chosen present tense for some reason:P And, I love Nick's ironic tone though that's what I am not able to do in my fanfic.

So Tom and Daisy have gone, possibly hunting for another football match. Jordan is married, to a cricket judge possibly, or a wealthy man capable of driving. Wilson didn’t move away, escape was not the way for him. He would know Gatsby There, and may even shake hands with Gatsby’s Father, who must be delighted to see his son come home so quickly. The world is not a lovely garden for His son after all.

I eloped with the first temptress in my life, whose sweet and bitter name almost killed my soul. M-e-m-o-r-y, her blade was on my neck until I finally reached the heaven that she depicts to me with her eyes reflecting the blue moonlight, with her rosy lips tearing up my moaning soul, in my dreams as I lie down every day, in my endless daydreams as long as my mind is alive.

My siren cries ecstatically as she takes her tender fingers off my eyes to display her heaven in front of me, an actual lost voyager. A blue garden, paradise for sirens, their flame-like lips sipping the breath of invisible voyagers, hundreds, thousands of them, with laughter delicate and chilly like crystals crying. Flowers made of sapphire have drowned all the young and innocent grass and all those alive here. The blue-eyed maidens in crystal gowns have been crowned as the Queens of the Blue Gardens by the King of the Mansion, Absolute Silence the Great.

Unsatisfied with his choice of companions, I attempt to murder the King by turning on all the lights I can find in the mansion. The magnificent mansion is nothing but a maze, imprisoning the purest crystal made of a schoolboy’s tears. I sit down in front of the piano. A boy and a woman danced here, I know. Why was that boy obsessed with the same siren haunting me? I took his mistress after he fell asleep in the swimming pool. He would no longer think of the girl with golden skin standing by my side, crying inside my mind. His father is with him now, he is home now, I am now the only one who is lost in the cold shining light on the emerald and somehow golden floor brighter than the warm sunset glowing through the windows.

The night falls as my mistress is teaching me an old song, an old friend of this particular piano. I have told the keys everything they want to hear about their old or not so old friends , nothing true，of course.

Suddenly, I abandon the dreaming piano and the singing lights, walking towards the lawn for no reason, for every reason. The green light is shining again, with the vitality of Dracula and countenance of Venus. I see a lonely figure in the light, he stands still and stretches out his arms towards the light in the mansion. My mistress’s blade is on my heart again as I walk to the dock dreamily, probably with my face frozen with no expression, with all human expressions.

I walk to the figure of a young roughneck, and touch his left shoulder to see if he is real. An embrace and a rare smile again filled with eternal reassurance. I kept crying in his arms, in my bed, in my dream，until his clothes are all wet in my tears. ‘What’s up, old sport ？’The figure moves even closer to my trembling body. Why cannot San Francisco just be in the Middle West？I fall down to the ground，starting crying again. Then his arms are around my trembling body, and his lips wandering in my hair. I dare not move, not even for half a second. At least now, here in my crazy dream, San Francisco is part of the Middle West.

In the glowing green light, our lips finally become petals of a same burning rose with the color of desire, covered with tender green leaves , so calm and content，so much resemble the symbol of eternity. Eternal daydream.

By the morning I am lying in velvet and silk, and the young roughneck lies beside me, I notice his eyes glancing at my face instantly while he pretends to be sleeping. Driven by the desire haunting me for two years, I slap him in the face, as my palm falls on one side of his cheeks, I finally become a slave of this burning desire .Another slap，another slap, more slaps, never satisfied. I know its madness, and I am god knows where, god knows with whom. If he’s real, the ironic resemblance would escort me to an asylum. If he’s not, I want to embrace and slap him till the dream vanishes.

‘Are you drunk, old sport?’ His fingers running through my hair, too tender even for this fragile dream of mine. So he wears a formal suit for parties and even meetings while sleeping. A perfect gentleman from Middle West has evoked confusion, admiration and compassion from me, I could feel my body, my eyes, my heart, everything, tremble unceasingly under his breath.

‘Who are you?’My voice trembling, regretting what I let go out of my lips.

He takes out a book. He is so gorgeous that no books in the world could match his wit, but he kisses it, and opens it with his fingers touching the pages tenderly in this incredibly long and tangible dream of mine. I lie on his knees dreamily as he sits up and reads to me like if I am a child. ‘Gatsby believes in the green light, the orgastic future that year by year recedes before us. It eluded us then, but that’s no matter—tomorrow we will run faster, stretch out our arms farther…. And one fine morning——’ So that’s a sign of welcome to my visit, a funny joke with the temperature of absolute zero. Tear up that book, tear up this talented actor, tear up everything and let Absolute Silence rule the castle again. But I did nothing except glancing at the clumsy actor in a way all the actors want to be looked at. ‘You must understand how much help I get from the dictionaries in my library while struggling to read this.’ I am trapped in his smile and another sudden embrace, again and again. ‘Who are you?’ I could sense the gorgeous flame of anger burning inside me. ‘Do you think I am some magician?’ A kiss imprisons every word that is about to get out of my lips. 

‘All these years, I am here for you, Mr. Nick Caraway. ’ So it’s all real, even Gatsby can survive, in the foul dust floating on the ground of Long Island. I laugh with absolute madness till the moment my heart is about to break. No, it’s broken, and no magician in the world could repair it. Why? Once a magician murmurs ‘Abracadabra’ and changes something inside it, it is doomed to break at the moment this miraculous magician, or the great sorcerer, dies. The combination of a heartless joke and a heartless audience forms another joke cooler than the world. 

‘We kissed in the green light, just as I planned.’ He pauses for a second or two, ‘old sport?’  
‘So what else have you planned, Mr. Magician?’  
‘Just you wait.’ His eyes fall on my face, a moment of sadness over my obvious ironic smile stubbornly stays in the smiling sapphires for a few seconds, and the crystals are obviously wounded by its ruthlessness. ‘Swe…….Old sport?'

Fragile, sensitive, warm, clumsy. It can’t be wrong. So he really survives. Anything incredible could happen in this incredibly foul world.

‘Yes, of course, Mr. Thomas Jefferson. ’I stop myself from offering him another slap and burst into tears like a child who has found the final scene a warm, clumsy and happy one in a sad, harsh story.


	2. Ivory Prison

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nick feels embarrassed about his presence in Gatsby's mansion for almost a whole day, and Gatsby is worried when he sees Nick liying on the floor, daydreaming, with the telephone dropped.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, Nick is getting uneasy again because of Gatsby's strange and action and his speculation that Daisy and Gatsby have reunited. He feels like an outsider in Gatsby's life.

Gatsby has gone somewhere after I fell asleep in ecstasy sometime between nine or ten, in the beaming sunlight and groaning silk with orgastic velvet. Now I am finally awake from the most ecstatic dream, stepping into the most ecstatic part of my life. Walking around the glamorous castle wearing an evening gown decorated with gold and silver, sapphire and ruby, emerald and crystal, rose and lavender, I try to smile dreamily like a schoolboy does upon its inherited airs and graces, but the vivid light in those glistening rooms breaks into small, various shapes in front of me like a princess’s mirror at the night after she turns into a queen. Innocence can be lost in less than a second, and could be buried inside an abandoned ship filled with other treasures, and guarded by the wings of memory, my forgotten mistress. Maybe I can never abandon her, and I will never be free from her murmuring.

He once desires wealth for glory and pride, then acquires wealth for a girl whose voice is full of money, then he asks that girl, already a woman then, for his lost innocence. What does he want now? My advantages, claimed by my father, serve as an irony in my attempt to understand him, his passion and struggle, his view about dream and reality, his lies and confession. I really want to believe in whatever he has said as I see his true self sitting, strolling, talking, drinking in front of me, a boy who never grows up, a little sunflower of eternal youth and vitality, but the overwhelming voice of reality forces me to doubt upon all the overwhelming things he claims.

The only thing I could believe in is that Gatsby does not desire my company or assistance. I cannot even trace the shadow of my innocence that went away from me, into the scent of rose and lavender in those summer days, in Annabel Lee’s white robe. Nor can I build up a castle made of glorious illusion and treasures acquired by the Viking like those in the fabulous tales. The only thing I could be is merely one of the audiences listening to and appreciating the tales told by a gifted poet. The tales will be full of extraordinary romance or adventure even if there is no audience. Why am I wandering like a lonely bird in this cold, empty mansion with no birds singing? I see ghosts, hundreds of them, emerging from the mirrors, the books, the paintings, the tables, the flowers, the wardrobes, every corner of this gigantic castle. One after another, they comment on my hilarious presence, laughing harshly with undisguised mockery, with their transparent body trembling in a way as hilarious as my presence in this strange place, the palace of the major character in my published novel whom I never understand.

The telephone rings. No answer. There should be nobody answering it. The owner of the house hasn’t come back, and the only one breathing in this cold palace built for a diminished dream is a guest, coming uninvited and staying the whole night, then wandering here the whole morning. However, the guest is supposed to answer it and bring the message to the host, at least out of politeness. So I hurry to the crying baby and feed it with…well, pacifier, the only thing I could give. 

‘Oh, my rose, how long has it taken for you to pick up the phone? Tom claimed that you must have left Jay’s mansion to hang out with some girl, Jay……oh, Jordan was really annoyed by his suggestion. Can you imagine she’s still thinking about you after all those years?’

‘I dare not believe that.’ A usual, polite, hollow answer to the usual boring question. Two years. Just two years. Every second in the twenty four months. Each moment during the about seven hundred days. His shadow in the water of the pool, his figure watching the guests leaving, his countenance in the sunlight while driving, his voice breaking out against my denial of his dream , his complaint about the marriage of a couple of the same category, his fake but lovely smile shining in my eyes on the first day we met. Everything about him imprisons me like ghosts with smile colder than the swimming pool in autumn for two years. Now I am still a prisoner, although have changed from a prisoner of his illusion to His prisoner.

‘Would you come to the afternoon tea tomorrow? Don’t take Tom.’ It is really Daisy’s voice then, and this observation confuses me to the extent that I want to leave the crying baby alone and go back to the warm and familiar embrace of the hotel I currently live in. ‘Who is Tom?’ I tried to smile even without this young lady in front of me. I hate her, I admit, and that’s why I am training myself to smile at her in case we have to meet again. But what is this trick all about? Isn’t Daisy supposed to leave? Isn’t Gatsby supposed to……...No, everything would be fine as long as he survives. Now, if Daisy is around here and Gatsby is alive, then…… 

‘None of my business!’ I shout to myself after feeling my soul tore up into blades and then attacking my heart physically. The physical pain in my breast forces this cry out from me, and forces the crying baby out of my trembling hand. ‘What’s up?’ ‘He misunderstood, I suppose.’ ‘Should we explain, Jay? At least tell him something. ’ Broken pieces of voices from the telephone come to my broken ears like pieces of a forgotten dream, and I decide to lie on the floor and pretend that everything is a dream. Ridiculous, of course, but I will soon be awake from this ridiculous fantasy and get some breakfast in the hotel. No, I could sense that I don’t want to leave this scene of a crazy drama, I don’t want to stay either. Let there be another dream, I murmur to my mind as I stop thinking. 

‘Old sport, what happened?’ Someone carried me upstairs to somewhere. Gatsby. Upon the silk and velvet again. He stays with me this time, sharing with me the incredible warmth of his healthy, strong body. I couldn’t help imagining the way he fights at war as his arms around my waist, my cold back against his warm breast, the marks of youth, passion and glory were left on his body forever, all I could think about at this moment is how that lad laughs with pride so pure and cherish. 

‘Please tell me, what happened?’ He looks like a homeless man about to lose his shelter again after he had it, helpless and hopeless, reminding me of the grass about to see its beloved flower be bit by a sheep. Beloved? I am completely mad at last.

I shut down my eyelids and lock myself in an ivory tower whose name I haven’t acquired, throwing the key into a swimming pool somewhere.


	3. Rain and wine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nick has decided to leave as he regards himself as an outsider, but Gatsby's crazy action thrills him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is quite short and there isn't much happening in this chapter, sorry about that:(. Nick's complicated feelings have become even more twisted because of the weird and crazy things Gatsby has done to him.

Cards on the table. I do not deserve being one piece of decoration to this beaming, charming and overwhelming castle built in the honor of the son of the God who inherits all the glorious beauty of mankind. It will be more suitable if I could just go back to the normal hotel and continue my normal life as a normal peasant, taking everything about here as a ridiculous and normal dream, the dream all the normal and mediocre would cling to as they snore in their old beds and annoy their old or new neighbors. 

‘I will go back to Minnesota tonight. I have been there for these two years, and it is more comfortable than my mansion here next door. ’ I cannot say much, I am forced to throw away my toy gun as the eyes of a young and sentimental boy staring at me, a cruel, selfish and hollow adult. As adults try to make up some sweet lies or tricks, children would just stay silent when there is nothing in their warm little hearts they want to express to you. Oh, yes, old sport. That’s quite a long way. Enjoy your journey. Don’t hesitate if you want to come to see me. I cannot figure out which hurts more because the trace of hurt on his silent face, from his silent lips, in his silent eyes, is sucking blood from me like Dracula and all his army of vampires, or may be more like Lamia taking my life away with her long, cold kiss turning warmer second by second with greed and joy. 

A couple of hours after I announce my unimportant departure, about ten minutes after we have tasted some silent cuisine and some quiet wine, a minute or two after the quiet night with her motionless raven tress and warm dark gown reigns again, I stand up and say Goodbye without my eyes falling on his face like how he avoided my eyes while telling me those fabulous tales about his past as a glorious descendant of a family from San Francisco, Middle West. Middle West? I see. San Francisco? I see. Arrange the afternoon tea? I see. Trim the grass? I see. Leave you there? I see. Go back to the past as a wealthy gentleman? I see. Stay with you during midnight and listen to the original version of your story? I see. Go swimming at noon? I see. I am never truly within the story, but a narrator of this golden, green, scarlet and silvery white story. I could never join the plot. I am a wise, immortal librarian telling readers from all time periods the story of a stupid, mortal man. My advantages, my education, my experiences, have thrown me into a dungeon with one single lantern shining like the hair clips of a mediocre prostitute made of rhinestone, away from the true sunlight singing above me and my prison built with my own obsession. 

Before finishing this hilarious poem in my mind, Gatsby knocks me down on the cold floor. He is right. I should just calm down and leave, and this knock helps me, possibly. Then, I am caught in the tears of the goddesses, the fairies and the dead maidens with my head swimming. A rain of rum, whiskey, vintage, champagne, and all the shiny or dull liquid Gatsby suddenly spreads out of the crystal bottles. A bath? My swimming head does not agree with this reasonable hypothesis. He drinks a quarter of a bottle of wine and invites my trembling and actually thrilled body to share the rest with him. I sit up and raise my empty eyes to meet the curious ecstasy in his lively eyes, with my hair wet like the silk and velvet under a lively couple when they are enjoying their honeymoon. 

Given the order of pleasing him with all my talent, vulgarly decorated lies and tricks, I am carried by an artist under pressure as a mediocre actress wearing dramatic and fragile dress to a cold bed in need of warmth.


	4. Afternoon Tea

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nick was really confused by the way Gatsby invites him to tea.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> SORRY this is really short. Happy Valentine's Day although it's passed minutes ago :)

I don’t know where I am. White quilt of fairies, white robes of angels, white roses of winter, white frost of a wedding cake, white tears of parted lovers, white dreams of a lovesick young poet. A prison built with albinotic sunflowers for my albinotic mind, which refuses the dazzling smile of the burning sun. Yet I fall asleep on this warm, white bed with my mind shiftless, starting to dream of a white boy, but with the scenery of scarlet sunrise in his mind, then come tender, blue clouds. The clouds become pink after five years, and this boy has got a grey suit. He seeks that warm, white little heart, weaving the remaining white smile and the seemingly white color of the clouds into a white, cold, burning key, which he believes to be the key to the autumn night, to the white sidewalks, to the white face, to the white breath, to the white kiss, to the white words. 

‘No, I think he’s not gonna come for tea. It’s almost four. ’  
‘He has been here for almost ten minutes, Jay.’ Daisy Buchanan’s sweet voice flowing like a river of white chocolate seems to be mixed with vanilla ice cream.  
Some white whispers I cannot hear. The tricks of a fairy. 

The silver castle begins to fall apart, with the scarlet blood of all those loyal, handsome soldiers released by the golden blades from an evil prince spilling onto the snowy skin of a virgin princess and her unstained robe. After the castle is fully crushed, the princess kissed by the prince cries ecstatically in the sweet cream, spilling champagne, rose petals and gold foil, sitting upon a ruined wedding cake.

Perfect plot. But I am not a princess, and should not be one buried in a huge cake.  
‘Hey, it’s angel’s food cake and there’s no cream.’ Tom Buchanan opens another bottle of champagne and helps me clean my white suit. I can’t even recognize him without that sense of coldness on his face, but he is laughing like a child, the way he was back in Yale. Daisy Buchanan stands beside him, with the sweet smile of a bride. He looks back at her, and they kiss in a way all lovers aspire. 

Anxiously, I look up at Gatsby as he ridiculously gets down on his knees in front of me. I think of giving him a hug as a little and actually useless mean of comfort, but before that, he puts his arms around my waist and pulls me into a breathtaking kiss. I am pushed into his burning breath by his heated lips, and his tongue tastes me in such an elegant way like if I am a cup of exotic tea tasted by an upper class gentleman, slowly, little by little, he is going to spend a whole afternoon enjoying this exquisite taste. Gatsby, the fake gentleman, is going to spend the afternoon, and likely, the following evening to slowly drink up everything, including all the scent, in my mouth. 

‘Oh, come on, you don’t even give him much in return.’ Observed by Daisy.  
‘He’s not gonna be satisfied with your gentle obedience.’ Followed by Tom.

But I have almost lost my breath, and I keep drowning in his increasingly burning breath.


	5. Questions on Your Dream

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nick felt like what happened in the last chapter was a strange dream, but Gatsby insisted on giving him strange questions on that 'dream'.

Gatsby tried to hide that book, my complete confession, with some newspapers as he notices I have just awaken from a painful and strange dream. I could guess that he has been sitting on that ivory chair next to the bed the whole night, which could be supported by one glance of the beautiful bookmarks and those gorgeous highlighting in the book. Maybe the color used by him to highlight every single word like a fascinated child is from the blossoms in his blue gardens, or the silk in his wardrobes, or the crystals decorated on his lamps. Something in his eyes stops me from these silly thoughts, something as if he is considering how to convey a millionaire to join some business. He must consider what this ‘old sport’ desires, how he could convince him that he could get what he wants in this trade, how much this wealthy man trusts him and how much profit he could possibly get from this deal. I could see his eyes wandering, avoiding mine, and, more importantly, his lips keep trembling. I know I must break the silence to save him from tension and embarrassment. But why? What have I done? Could it be because what I said or even yelled as I was in that horrible dream? Possibly, and that may be why he is studying my words to try to understand those words broke out from my dreaming self yesterday. 

‘I had a really strange dream, and that’s why I probably said something strange in my dream, which may not even be understood by myself. ’ I dare not think about those crazy stuff in that dream, and I’ve got to do anything to prevent him from knowing that ridiculous kiss. But my mind keeps questioning, why afternoon tea, why the presence of Tom and Daisy, why the intimacy between them, why Gatsby kissed me. Once my mind reminds me something about the revelation of unconscious desire by dreams, I really dare not think further, hoping Gatsby could somehow drag me out of this stupid struggle.

‘What kind of dream?’ He seems relieved, and his lips unconsciously, or consciously, stop trembling. For the sake of stopping him from being worried about me or trying to figure out what I went through in my dream, it would be better to answer him. To make up a piece of convincing lie, you’ve got to mix something true and genuine in it.

‘I was buried in a huge cake.’ I give him my brightest smile to clear the snow on his cheeks and lips. How long has he been hiding himself behind those worthless fortune which held so much in his eyes of shiny stones placed in the eyes of the Greek statues, behind that stiff image so priceless to his heart of crystals inside of those young, beautiful statues? How long has he forgotten the laughter of girls and boys on the farm, the laughter of wheat and apples, the laughter of birds, all without pretension and the need to pretend? How long has he been such a lonely teenager bearing all the consequences of all those breathtaking and turbulent emotion?

‘Who did this to you?’ He has given up on remaining serious after his creeping and hiding laughter was caught by me more than once. His eyes have caught that magical sunshine again as my laugher mingling with his. 

‘Mr. Jay Gatsby.’ I tried to look less playful.

‘Then,’ His voice becomes serious again, although with that burning smile hanging on his face, I could hear my heart dancing as I notice this, ‘How do you think of that dream? I mean, are you, umm, are you afraid of something in that dream, or, umm, can you accept everything in this dream if it’s, umm, if it’s not a dream, I mean, yeah, I mean what if it’s not a, umm, dream. Forget about what I said, I am kidding, yeah, just kidding. Sorry, I know this sounds a bit, umm, a bit strange.’ His gesture seems as stiff as it did when he gave me his past in rubies and medals.

I have no idea what he is talking about, only knowing he is definitely hiding something. It’s better to give an honest answer as I couldn’t deceive an innocent child even if that child is obviously lying. Ashamed, I am ashamed to dream about the cold blood murders of the greatest soul, ashamed to rewind, and mostly, ashamed to dream about that unreasonable romance. 

‘It’s quite ridiculous, so unbelievably silly that I am a little ashamed, I mean, I was buried in that cake.’ I should not lead him into more doubts and worries.

‘So you mean the other parts are okay?’ His reaction seems so unnatural, to the extent that I doubt that he entered my dream and had designed it before I fell asleep.

‘Yeah, it’s just too funny. I do regard it as something terribly delightful.’ I cannot say ‘terrible’, I’ve got to hide all the clues from an experienced, sensitive, intelligent businessman. 

‘Funny? Do you want to say you can’t take it as reality?’ His eyes are staring at me, tearing up the temporary shelter I built for the possible clues.

‘It’s fine for me, but you won’t want it to be true.’ I slap on his back to break the weird tension.

‘You know what? I’m sure I can. Tell me all about it.’ His eyes, cheeks and lips are all grinning, as if the deal could be made in a second and the profit he could get outweighs everything he decided to put into this deal.

I have forgotten words. I don’t want to lie to someone so precious, and don’t want to scare him as well.

‘Just tell me, all right?’ He breaks the silence as he notices I am not trying to say anything.

‘I’m hungry, Jay, shall we have some breakfast?’ I almost start running away.

‘Would you just TELL me PLEASE?’ He is shouting, and he puts his hands on my trembling shoulders. ‘Tell me, old sport.’ His voice suddenly becomes extremely soft, which indeed scares my escaping heart. 

‘No, Jay, I can’t. Please stop this.’ I feel even more ashamed, never so ashamed in my life after I realize that I’ve made that little girl’s or young maiden’s silly request.

‘Then, I tell you, I CAN.’ His lips have captured mine, like a helpless boat on the sea caught by a violent storm. That boat may cry or seek for help as much as it could, but the cries of a young maiden will be drowned in the claim of the strong storm upon its power, and the flags would become invisible in the deep blue as soon as the variation in the category of colors on the sea is noted by the incredible eyes of the storm. Eventually, that boat would drown in that deep, blue, warm bed, so do my mind in the tenderness and violence of his lips, his tongue and even his teeth.


	6. Summer Fruit

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After Jordan's visit and Gatsby's failure to hide his plan, Gatsby and Nick finally confessed their feelings for each other.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> But it's definitely not the end.

Jordan Baker comes to the party of the ghosts tonight, and unfortunately, she notices a shadow sitting on the edge of the swimming pool. That shadow is about to use the pool as she shows it her face as charming as scarlet autumn leaves, ‘Hi, Nick. ’ 

‘Hi, Jordan.’ Honestly, I don’t feel like saying anything, the same as the time we parted months ago. But I am still wondering, what could be the reason for her visit? Her husband is curious about this mysterious place so request her to come and take some photos? Some journalists need old news? She is bored with her cool autumn and wants to taste some summer fruit? 

Jordan, the golden maid of the golden girl, smiles at me with the sound of gold, ‘How are you doing recently, my rose? How did the wind take your lovely petals to the stunning garden of your neighbor’s?’ Half offended, half in love, I am disappointed and thrilled by the way she teases me, although I know she can’t mean it, she can’t know the strange traps designed by the ghosts here who stare at me all the time. But she does provide me the key to the gate of the cold and burning tower, the key to escape the fatal work of the gorgeous fireworks. 

The hope to escape has become the motivation for me to talk to her like old friends who have known each other for a few years. I am so engaged that I have no idea where the conversation is going. Jordan’s lips suddenly touches my left ear, which makes my body unconsciously tremble for a second. 

‘I had a dream weeks after I met him, and in this dream he kisses me. A week after, we shared a lovely kiss.’ She sounds like if she is talking to a teenage girl who is her close friend in a little conversation about crush. 

‘So I suppose, as I didn’t resist the kiss in my dream, my mind have accepted him already. One week later, my body accepted him as well.’ 

‘Interesting.’ I try to smile. 

‘Do you have similar experience?’ Her face and her increasingly tender voice is even closer. Now I see, I see. 

‘I’m afraid that I’ve got to do my work right now. You may come in and have some tea.’ I have forgotten to hide my anger. Interestingly, my anger resembles that of a child who is accused of stealing some sweets from his friends. This kind of feeling is childish and my words even sound like I’m embarrassed rather than actually offended. The only thing I could say for sure is that I feel angry about this sort of deception.

As an undoubtedly intelligent lady as she always is, Jordan leaves as soon as I invite her to have some tea. Then, the even more intelligent businessman comes directly to the pool without the effort of pretending to look for me. I blush like a lovesick teenager as I talk to him, ‘I think I am gonna repeat your mistake, old sport. I cannot imagine Jordan came here to visit me, and she was even more charming than before. She left just a few seconds ago, what a pity! Otherwise you could have had a good look at her pretty face. Why this girl is married? But despite her marriage, she can still read my mind! And she had almost the same dream as I did last night! I am certainly sure this is what soul mates are like. ’

I am indeed satisfied as I see the obvious movement of his eyes, his brows and even his lips. ‘No, she doesn’t read your dream, old sport, no……..’ His words are like birds in front of a gun, so terrified, so interesting. Now I think I am enraged indeed.

‘So why does she know?’ Still the lovesick expression on my cold face.

‘You know what? I knew your dream, and I told her about it.’ His face is pale like if he is a criminal waiting for the final judgment.

‘Not a dream, right?’I look into his eyes, holding the answer to my question in my eyes.

‘You’ve got it.’ Said the shrewd businessman.

‘Its name is not what, but why.’ I am even terrified by the coldness of my voice.

No answer. Is he drowned in the pool again? As soon as this cruel phrase comes into my mind, I begin trembling at my cruelty towards someone so dear to me, so dear to the world. A child may play harmless tricks on you, but he still has the heart of gold, and actually warmer than gold. 

‘Sorry, forget what I said, would you? Then let’s have some tea, or go to the Coney Island, or use the pool, anything you want.’ I try my best to give him a warm, big smile with the color of miles of sunflowers.

‘But I just want to know if you can take me as……ah, I mean, if you would accept me as, I mean, yeah, as your…….I know it sounds strange, but would you accept me as your lover if I…..ah, I love you.’ Now he looks like the lovesick one.

‘So you and Jordan carry out that brilliant experiment on me to see if I can accept you with both my mind and my body? ’ My words still come out quite sharp, and I really hope that he is not hurt by their hidden blades.

‘Yes, so….do you? Sorry, I know you’re gonna hate me now.’ A desperate child, I can’t help embracing him.

But…Love? What’s love? Venus’s countenance? Sweet poems? Heated letters? A little dog? A little daughter? Green light? For me, it’s none of them, it’s not love. No, it’s not. It has all the beautiful scenery of all the regions on this planet, it has the glamorous shadows of the beauties from all the time period, it has words from passionate poets in all kinds of context, it cannot be depicted by the four simple letters. Everything I described above fail to present even one glance of my feelings. For the burning charm of it, I’ve accepted my failure to depict its smile. 

‘More than love. I’ve proved that in my dream and after.’

‘So I was right.’ He finally laughs and drags me down into the swimming pool.

‘Since when did you start your study in speculation, or possibly psychology?’ I know I am not gonna resist.

In the still water, our lips lean against each other like a pair of lovers who have just prepared for their honeymoon. So tender like heaven, so quiet like eternality.


	7. Lost Realm

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> One year later, a mysterious lady told Nick something about her past related to his amazing experience after what happened in the last chapter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know my chapters are always SO short compared to Fitzgerald's, sorry about that!  
> Original character and post-colonism involved in this chapter. Hope you guys enjoy this exotic taste! You would know about the crazy things happening to the boys due to this trade in the next chapter :P

A mysterious lady came to our party one year after. In that ghostly library, she told us an incredible fairy tale.

‘So, are you sure that itz gonna worg?’ That incredibly energetic man and his warm smile.

‘Without a doubt. 100 dollars, please.’ My usual confident response. 

’Oh my lovely lady, 90 dollars, okay?’ How clever, this Mr. Wolfsheim, who formerly claimed that he’ll pay anything to bring his closest friend back. Just for the sake of my young and inexperienced curiosity, I tried to talk to him about his friend after he came to ask, actually, beg for his friend’s already cold life. His friend, Jay Gatsby, helps him a great deal in business, Wolfsheim became so reliant on his pupil that he cannot win the same amount of benefit without him. That’s how the crazy idea emerges.

‘Come on, what do you think you are paying for? You want it to bring a man back to life, remember? I’ve told you the ingredients are extremely rare. Besides, this man was dead three years ago, which has gone beyond the ability of normal portions I make for this very purpose. That’s why I’ve got to risk my life to search for new ingredients. More importantly, I understand your concern for the future of your career.’ I knew my terrible accent and grammar as a foreigner, the same way as I knew how my client would become a totally obedient wife in this dangerous and dark trade with a bond resembles marriage. 

He was my first client in America, and also the one I’ve got the greatest amount of information about. I knew my eyes, so I knew the name and address of his friend. I knew my lips, so I knew his true intention. I knew my skin, so I knew his career as a businessman. And actually, all my knowledge came from my desire for his and even his friend’s alcohol. Receiving dollars with unknown faces on them each day, I worked on our sacred ancient secret beaming in another world that has been abandoned by the most of my generation, even a great number of my kind. Changing my life to dollars, I had lost that distant world and the mystery and beauty about those secrets. I replace my lost fortune with illusion. Breathtaking and heartbreaking illusion that need extra amount of alcohol, overly-sweet dessert, wild parties, dumb discussion, tough sex, a whole day’s sleep to weave. 

The only thing I kept as a souvenir of my childhood was a little, wicked girl’s deception. And I used this against unfaithful client, such as Wolfsheim who gave me fake money.

He came back for me months after, with an exquisite knife. I made him use that pretty tool to ruin my old, dirty dress, and generously gave him the portion he wanted, but the turbid red liquid went into the mouth of an alive, healthy man. Counteract, I knew. 

For some reason, I was some sort of drawn to the mystery around his unlucky friend. Someone graduated from Oxford would be interested in illegal trade? Someone penniless could eventually accumulate such incredible amount of wealth through his intelligence, passion and plot? A shrewd businessman working in a black market could get a shot and just die? I dreamt of him once, and in my dream, he was so distinct from Wolfsheim who I suppose he must resemble. He had got the heart of our ancient treasure, treasure buried deep down the Earth in another part of the broken world, in another world. We talked about things, things I couldn’t remember, somewhere in the ancient time of my lost realm, somewhere I didn’t even really know about except in my dreams. 

I was sure that he was alive because he must be alive to keep my realm alive.

That’s when I begin to hunt for him.


	8. Jam

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gatsby became a ghost, and Nick couldn’t see him. I am excitedly announcing that they finally made love!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What I’m gonna tell you in the note is not related to my fanfic, but PLEASE read this if you care about what is happening in China these days. The fans of Zhan Xiao persecuted and are still persecuting innocent fanfic authors (even offend their privacy such as exposing their identity, including name and address in real life. An author is expelled by her school due to their crazy and mindless accusation), and they challenge the freedom of art creation for no reason. They just cannot accept that their idol is depicted as a homosexual in the fanfics, and don’t even feel guilty to exert violence on the authors. Plus, the guy Zhan Xiao is not dead and is not even sick, I don’t know how the rumors spread on Twitter but what I know is that he made no attempt to stop his fans from committing such crime. Such violence is undoubtedly sort of crime. Loads of fanfiction are deleted by websites because of this as well. It seems that no website for fanfic in China has tried to understand and respect the freedom of artists.

One piece of naked bread on the table.With no creamy coat, no strawberry-colored hat.One plate and one fork complain to each other about their companions who disappeared one week ago. 

I’ve cooked breakfast three times, lunch twice, supper once since one week ago, in this abandoned palace. Each time I drop an egg into the silver pot, into the crying oil, I hear the cry of his innocence and youth, they are used and are forgotten by a clever but careless boy like worthless but lucky bricks invited to establish this extraordinary palace . Gatsby paid them for glory and romance. But then, he almost gave up everything to pursue them, begging a glance from his white old self. He is still a boy, but something in him had gone while he is practicing his perfect smile, while he is making up that story in which he is a boring , wealthy orphan, while he is hiding somewhere to pick up calls from places he may not even know anything about. 

Noise in the kitchen.

Languidly like strolling around a garden, I come to the kitchen to see what happened.I see four palates, three bottles of jam, two forks and one egg lying there, with their coat or body or heart broken. I sigh without sorrow, and pick up the pieces without worries. They won’t hurt me, they cannot. The only thing that would really hurt me has gone, and may not come back. A piece of crystal rises, its smiling eyes gleaming like those of the goddess Eos. So it’s dawn, it should be. I haven’t really looked at the clock or my watch. It’s a miracle that I could say he has gone a week ago.

But another piece rises as well, two Eos gleaming in the sky. Could one be the shadow of the goddess? I guess not, as they are both shiny. Ghosts, I have acquainted them, while they grow increasingly curious about my presence, and one day they finally questioned me with their curios laughter. The two Eos both fall down like if the wind or the gods and goddesses up there have chosen the gentle touch and mysterious countenance of Nyx over the wild voice and careless embrace of Eos. 

They fall into my palm, with their straight forward and even sharp complaint.Their iridescent phrasing has impressed my tender skin, blood drops from broken skin meeting dropped pieces from broken utensils. Maybe there are some wicked ghosts here, whom I’m not interested in.   
  
Wandering around the mansion for the whole day, I am constantly reminded of the presence of the ghosts. Someone’s fingers touching my hands, smelly red liquid on my coat, smell of jam on my cheeks even.   
  
As I lie down, hiding my cold body and trembling heart from my cruel eyes, I could feel something on my lips. Not the wind, not moonlight, not flies, not ghosts. It stays and breathes on my lips. It’s neither quite tangle nor warm, but I could feel the delicate creature lying on my lips. No whisper, no murmuring, no secrets, but the quality of eternal assurance in its company does light up my face, and even my heart. I know it is sorrowful, I could feel the tears dripping down from its tiny form, then the salty liquid flowing into my mouth. My hand begins to search for it in darkness as I can’t help imagining the rhythm of its ghostly heart. Nothing on my lips. My lips are even colder as the cold touch of my hand replaces the breath of that delicate creature.   
  
I have to quietly order my hand to retreat, then waiting for the reunion of my lips and that delicate feeling. It comes, and this time it begins to explore the whole realm. Even Nyx and her admirers are asleep now. No one would know how this incredible, mysterious creature lying upon my eyelids, playing with my eyelashes, strolling around my cheeks that covered in the smell of jam, climbing down my chin onto my neck. That curious, subtle and tender feeling it caused on my neck sets my heart on fire. My hidden, dormant desire is now awake, after all these years. I surrender to the growing ecstasy in me and have groaned twice at the ghostly touch of its tiny feet. It’s fine, nobody would hear. Even the creature may not comprehend my desire. But it does. It is around my waist now, and it’s no more a tiny raindrop. Now it resembles the shiny emerald-colored hair of willows, talking to my waist with its innocent but actually flirtatious eyes. ‘Yes.’ I answer, and my voice like the exposed, quivering body of a virgin.   
  
I feel my formerly empty body is now filled with ecstasy, life, passion, hope, imagination, love. It is still cold, but now a glass bottle full of jam. Strawberry? Mango? Pineapple? Apple? Orange? It contains all. The color of the jam is supposed to be like dark chocolate or vanilla, as both black and white contain all the other colors. It has come inside me with the beauty that can only belong to the master of this castle. ‘Jay, Jay Gatsby, James, James Gatz…’ I said his names like this virgin does with her sweetness running outside her body. Just for fun, I keep groaning even I cannot feel the pain at all. My astonishment as I first meet his smile, my hope to help him as I first meet his dream, my sympathy for him as I meet his story again, my worries for him as I first meet his disappearance, my ecstasy as I meet him again, my envy as I meet the imagination of his romance again, my worries as I meet his disappearance again. All those subtle feelings begin flowing in my constant groan, accompanied by my obviously burning love for him.   
  
Yes, my soul, my light, my candle, yes, please, yes, I love you in a way I can never fully express, yes, you are worth the whole damn world, ah, yes, please, oh……could you please give me more? No, no, you can never hurt me, just give me that. Yeah……….  
  
But it stops. He stops. Then he kisses over my body for a thousand times, tenderly, quietly. He stays on my lips till the actual Eos finally comes after calling Nyx’s name in their bed high above ours.   
  



End file.
